can we hold on to this moment and never let go?

By J. Awad

“Did you hear about Nadia?” Layla asked as she took a long sip from her straw. I stared at the coffee visible through the mason jar. It was a light caramel colour, the sugary syrup collecting at the bottom. My lips dipped into a frown; a shiver skated down my spine at the thought of having to down such a sickly sweet beverage.

I suppressed a sigh, knowing that I wasn’t going to give a damn about whatever came next. This was what our lives had boiled down to—gossiping about others because we had nothing exciting going on ourselves. It had been fun during our not-so-long-ago college days: the whispered comments about who was dating who—and who had just been caught doing what—dissolving into giggles that somehow cemented our tight-knit bond. As if degrading other people brought us closer.

Layla is my best friend. We had met on the first day of middle school—two shy, Middle Eastern girls lost in a plethora of predominantly white classmates in our small suburban town. We locked eyes, recognized the kindred blood that ran between us, and never looked back. 

I watched her go through her different stages, shedding each personality she developed like a new skin. I’m sure she saw me go through the same thing, slowly finding our footing among the shaky seas of growing older. It wasn’t always a pretty sight, but it was a reminder that I knew the intrinsic core of her. No matter what anyone might think today, I would always think of the anxious, wide-eyed girl with braces who used to be obsessed with fantasy novels and boy bands. 

Did she also see my younger self when she looked into my eyes? A small part of me yearned for it.

Except there was no point thinking what if. 

Layla tapped a finger on the oak table, pulling me from my thoughts. Her expression was expectant, and my mind scrambled to rewind our conversation. 

“No, what happened?” I asked, tone slightly dismissive. She didn’t even notice. Or maybe she ignored it.

The little café we were sitting in was painted a light pink colour, contrasting nicely with the sage green trim. The windows were large and wide, letting in bright sunlight. A mix of mismatched couches and chairs scattered around the space, each one accompanied by a dark table. The sound of clinking plates and the smell of freshly baked pastries faded into the background.

A handful of people were milling around, chatting, eating, or working. Everyone was consumed by something, and I longed for that same feeling.

Squinting at my friend, the rays cast an otherworldly halo around her face. 

“She just got engaged,” Layla revealed, setting the mason jar down. My eyes widened, and she leaned forward in her seat, a gleam in her gaze as she nodded. “I know, right? Nadia, out of all people? She always said she would rather ‘die than succumb to the outdated institution of matrimony.’” 

Layla rolled her eyes as she spoke, and I had to stifle a laugh. It was verbatim Nadia’s speech whenever she refused to settle down. 

“I wasn’t even aware she had a boyfriend,” I remarked, wrapping a hand around my own drink. My fingers itched for an anchor, and the sting from the hot tea felt like an awakening.

“It was a whirlwind romance. They met a few months ago and just got engaged. She posted a photo of her ring online,” she explained, her eyes flitting around this time. Layla was easily distracted.

“Wow. I’m surprised she didn’t even mention it in the group chat. I mean, we might not use it as much anymore, but this is big news.” 

“Yeah, I know. If I were her, I’d be texting and calling everyone. I talked to Emma, too, and she said Nadia hadn’t told her anything. She found out the same way I did.” Her eyebrow raised as she revealed that little tidbit, gaze laser-focused.

I gasped slightly, giving her the reaction she was hoping for. “She didn’t tell Emma? But they’re so close.” 

My friend shrugged her shoulders as she leaned back in her chair. “Who would’ve guessed we’d be here? Soon, we’re going to be attending so many weddings, it’ll be hard to keep track.”

I winced at the reminder, that near-constant thought flashing through my mind. 

You are so behind.

“Yeah,” I agreed, letting out a weak chuckle. I sipped my tea, forgetting that it was still steaming hot. The liquid scorched a trail down my throat, the pain distracting. A series of coughs ensued. 

“You okay?” Layla asked, eyeing me. 

I nodded, a hand on my neck. “Yeah, I’m good. Just went down the wrong pipe.”

But she had already moved on, picking at her nails. 

A long pause. Uncharacteristic of Layla.

And then, “Do you ever miss when we were younger? When things were less…complicated?”

I hesitated as I contemplated the abrupt question, even though I already knew the answer. 

Of course I did. There was so much I missed about being a child, about being a teenager. I missed the sense of freedom and possibility. I missed sneaking out of the house to do gas station runs with Layla, stuffing our arms with as many snacks as we could carry to the car and gorging on them. I missed the late-night talks about boys, school, and life. I missed the little trips we would take exploring our city, discovering a new fascination every time. I missed the silliness of it all—the way the not-so-distant future had felt so far away.

Occasionally, I thought maybe we could get that feeling back. My all-too-logical side snuffed out the spark before it could grow. 

“Yeah, I do. It was just easier back then.” I faltered, unsure what Pandora’s box we might be accidentally prying open. “Do you?”

Our eyes met. For a split second, I caught a glimpse of the girl I used to know.

“I do,” she agreed quietly. 

Her mouth shaped into a frown, brows furrowing. I held my breath reflexively, recognizing the expression on her face. It was how she reacted when she wanted to say something yet wasn’t sure if she should, because she knew the effect her words might have. Though—more often than not—those words found their way out.

“I miss how we used to be, too,” she finally blurted.

My shoulders tensed. The bustle surrounding us dulled, until all I could hear was a high-pitched ringing in tandem with the thump-thump of my heart. 

The lid of the box came flying off. She had addressed it directly: the unspoken chasm slowly growing between us was finally making its way into the light.

“We used to be so much closer, Aisha.” She laid her hand on the small table, her fingers twitching slightly as they reached closer toward me. Her stare pleaded with a mixture of sadness and guilt. 

I placed my hand next to hers—so close, but not exactly touching. My skin scratched against the wooden surface. 

“I feel like we’re drifting apart, and I can’t take that. I can’t lose you, because it would feel like…” She trailed off, but I silently filled in the rest. It would feel like losing our past, that youth and nostalgia we so desperately clung to.

“I get it,” I replied softly, with my best attempt at a comforting smile. “You’re right. We are drifting apart.” 

“I don’t want that to happen, Aisha.” She glanced away for a second before looking back, her gaze now steely with resolve.

“Can we go back to the way it used to be?” 

And there was something in her expression that made the words come tumbling out of their own accord. 

“Of course we can.”

Her grin was laced with idealism, her fingers blindly grappling to reduce that mere centimetre separating us. When she brushed against my hand, she clutched tightly and squeezed. 

The café’s cacophony, of muffled conversations and burnt coffee-bean aroma, came rushing back. My heart stilled to a steadier beat as the ringing in my ears eased. 

“Good. I promise, things will be different.” Layla sounded so sure, so determined, that I couldn’t help but admire such a strong sense of conviction and hope. 

I knew, as I gently let go of her and took a sip of my now-lukewarm tea, that nothing would change. Layla’s vow only papered over the cracks of our relationship; the box’s lid would never fully close again.

We would go back to the facade of being close, yet hiding more and more of ourselves as we grew older. We would return to this exact same café a week later and replay the exact same scene—and probably for a long time after. 

Such is the trajectory of life, and who are we to stop it?

J. Awad is an undergraduate student studying Psychology and English. She is a new writer. When not reading, you can find her thinking up story ideas or procrastinating by watching her favourite TV shows for the millionth time.